


Prima Materia

by Snowgrouse



Category: Fright Night (2011), Mad Dogs (TV)
Genre: M/M, PWP, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-07
Updated: 2011-12-07
Packaged: 2017-10-27 01:36:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/290218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snowgrouse/pseuds/Snowgrouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the debacle in Vegas, Peter takes his show on a tour of the Mediterranean. In Majorca, everyone's boozing hard and shagging hard, except for a certain bespectacled, stuck-up fellow Englishman. Peter knows exactly how to remedy that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prima Materia

**Author's Note:**

> Total and utter PWP. Thanks to Versaphile for the beta.

Peter knows a closet case when he sees one.

Just look at him, dancing there, awkwardly, in his glasses, probably just hit forty but dressing like an old fogey. He looks like a sobered ex-hippie art teacher, well past his clubbing years. Reads the Guardian, practices yoga, divorced or just about to, with kids. And Peter can tell, can smell his insecurity, can tell what's behind those awkward man hugs he drunkenly showers on his friends. Oh yes. Peter smooths his hair, checks his eyeliner in the mirror, and the game is fucking _on_.

He swaggers over, stumbling slightly in his boots and plops himself on the sofa next to the lads with a creak of leather and an exaggerated sprawl. He extends his hand. "Peter."

The man hesitates, looks to his friends as if asking for permission, and finally shakes Peter's hand, quick and loose. "Baxter." He withdraws his hand as quickly as he'd offered it, grabs his beer and clutches it to his chest. Baxter can't not have recognised Peter--his posters are all over the resort, as is probably his reputation. Hell, Baxter eyes Peter with a look that screams "Poof alert, poof alert, abort, abort." And Peter laps it up, smirking at him.

"So. Seen the show yet?"

Baxter picks at the label of his bottle. "Nah, wasn't planning on it. Not really my kind of thing."

Peter lifts his eyebrows and makes an exaggerated, disbelieving pout. "I could get you lads a couple of tickets. Worse ways to spend an evening."

Baxter sniffs and laughs. "Not enough bums on seats, eh? You _must_ be desperate." He quaffs his beer and turns away, signaling the end of the conversation.

Peter ignores him and wriggles closer. The burly blond man sitting next to Baxter flashes him a warning look, and Peter cheerily ignores that as well. He rummages in his pockets and slaps a few tickets onto the table. "Here. Tomorrow night, curtain's up at seven." He winks. "There's tits." He pats Baxter's thigh and he's off.

Piece of fucking cake.

***

As predicted, the tits worked. They always do. Peter gives the girls extra tips that night, making them eye him with suspicion. "Now, don't spend it all at once, ladies." "Piss off," they greet him in chorus. Perfect team, Peter muses as he closes the door behind him and takes a swig off his vodka. It's almost like the old days, except you can't get Midori here for love or for money. Still, better for his waistline--the leather trews were starting to get a bit tight around the old spare tyre.

Now. To business. He tucks his flask into his belt and heads off to the bar. Baxter is easy to spot. He's probably had a few, because he's gesticulating animatedly, gushing about the pyrotechnics to his friends, whereas the other lads seem mostly bored. Peter leans against the bar at a calculated 45 degree angle and orders a rum and Coke. Baxter rushes to greet him; he's positively beaming.

"Great show, man."

Peter sips his drink. "Yeah? Finally convinced?"

Baxter looks at his shoes. "Um, yeah. Sorry about last night."

Peter shrugs. "'s all right. What did you think of the Cabinet of Unholy Terrors?"

"That bit where they--" Baxter ties a knot in the air. "How the hell do you get out of that straitjacket?"

Peter affects a dignified, posh voice and grabs at his lapel. "A magician never reveals his tricks, my dear boy."

And dear lord, Baxter actually _blushes_. He's so ready, so ripe. Now's as good a time as any.

"Say, I could show you some of the works if you want to come backstage and have a look." He nudges Baxter. "Special treat. You look like you could appreciate it."

"Really?" Of course, there's a suspicion in Baxter's eyes, but he's still on a high from the show, and from whatever he's been drinking. It's all right. Peter can work with this. He sets down his drink and starts to head off. "Yeah, c'mon."

He's stopped by a hand on his chest. "Just where the fuck do you think you're taking him?" It's Baxter's friend from before; all icy eyes, pockmarked cheeks and a thoroughly unpleasant level of sobriety. He's got boss/teacher/military written all over him. Not Peter's type, not Peter's type at all.

"Wouldn't you like to know, darling," Peter lisps.

"Hey!" Baxter steps between them, pushing them apart. "Quinn, this isn't the time--"

"For what?" Quinn barks. "Where the hell do you think you're going?"

"The fuck, Quinn?" Baxter steps back and eyes Quinn up and down. "You think I can't take care of myself? Piss off."

Well, now, this is interesting. Moving past the slightly incestuous father/son dynamic here, Peter arrives at the conclusion that this is exactly what he was looking for. Baxter's showing the man underneath the mouse, hissing and spitting in impotent rage at Quinn for embarrassing him in public (yep, Peter was right about the daddy issues). Baxter is practically shaking with anger, slapped down from his high, as furious as a disappointed child. And it's here where he's most vulnerable, here's where the alchemy happens, and Peter is not a magician for nothing. He simply grabs Baxter's wrist and storms off with him, Baxter practically running past him in his eagerness to get away from his chaperone. When they reach the door, Peter can see Quinn fuming, clenching his fists, but clearly resigned. It's not the first time this has happened, that much is obvious.

When they reach backstage, slightly panting from their brisk trot there, Baxter leans against a wall and catches his breath. Peter takes a swig off his vodka and offers Baxter some.

"You all right?"

Baxter shakes his head and takes a sip. "No. But it's okay." He smacks his lips and hands back the flask. "Thanks, by the way."

"No problem." Peter laughs, because it's all so bloody ridiculous. "It's like saving a virgin from a dragon. I must remember to work this into the show someho--"

He can't finish because Baxter's on the floor, on his knees, undoing the laces of Peter's trousers. "Fuck."

"Kind of what I had in mind," Baxter murmurs before he closes his mouth around Peter's cock and _sucks_.

Peter smacks the back of his head on the brick wall, making him wince, but Baxter's mouth is a fucking fantastic distraction. Oh, absolutely fantastic. Peter groans loudly, feeling the slight warmth from the vodka on his cock--just enough to feel good, not to sting and he really shouldn't think of those disastrous booze blowjobs from specialised Vegas prozzies that landed him in the A&E and oh, Baxter may be closeted but he knows what he's doing. Fuck, Peter hasn't been this hard this fast in _months_. He rolls his hips and purrs in his throat, stroking the back of Baxter's head in appreciation. "You filthy tart."

Baxter nuzzles Peter's cock, laughing against it, and the scratch of his goatee is enough to make Peter's knees tremble. He straightens his glasses. "Was there ever any doubt?" He wets his mouth and slides it around Peter's cock and Jesus fuck, he does _things_ with his tongue, and Peter may have to fucking hire him because--

As Peter comes, he thwacks his against the wall again, and that's it, he's had enough. "Bed."

Baxter wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, smirking, his glasses stained with drops of Peter's come. "Bed."

***

Peter's room isn't quite as luxurious as his shag pad in Vegas, but it'll do. Hell, even here he gets the full five stars, a giant bathroom, jacuzzi, private bar, entertainment center, the works. The silk sheets are a nice bonus, and it turns out Baxter is quite virginal after all, from the way he moans into the pillow when Peter buries his face in his arse. Peter can tell when a man's never been rimmed before, never had his arse played with, and fuckit, he has to pause to turn some extra bedside lights on. Fuck romantic lighting, this is hardcore porn right here.

And oh, is Baxter _pink_ when Peter spreads his cheeks with his thumbs, so bare and pink, glistening with Peter's spit. Peter murmurs a thankful prayer to all the demons of sodomy for Baxter having sucked him off earlier, because _damn_.

Baxter, however, tenses. He must've sobered enough to realise this is the real deal. Right. This might be a good time to attempt some gentlemanliness. Peter moves his hands from Baxter's buttocks to his back, kneading the tension out. "You want me to stop?"

Baxter twitches a bit, then relaxes. He squints at Peter over his shoulder, glasses now transferred to the bedside table. "Just be careful. I haven't--"

"I know." _Damn it_ , he thinks. It's times like these that seriously harsh his ruthless playboy side. It's the vulnerability--or at least this level of vulnerability--that sometimes stops him and makes him feel like an abuser, an absolute piece of shit and make him crumple into a heap of misery (especially since this tends to happen just when the booze runs out, too). But he looks away and bites his lip, thinks. No. Baxter did not just say "No." He just wanted him to slow down. Baxter wants this. Peter's not going to fuck this up.

Right. The slow way. He continues to rub Baxter's back, listening to his breathing. He shifts on the bed and uses all his skills to manipulate Baxter's muscles--Christ, this man must've been tense for years--and leans down and kisses his buttocks, dragging his lips across the cleft, breathing warmth onto Baxter's skin. "'m going to make it good for you. Just relax." Peter laughs and licks up Baxter's arse. "Going to open you up, nice and easy."

"Oh." And that was a proper shiver. The hairs on Baxter's thighs are standing on end. So it's dirty talk he likes, then, eh? Peter spreads Baxter's arse and bites gently into one buttock. "Yeah. Going to lick this little hole _red_." Oh, Baxter definitely likes that, going by the way he just humped the bed. Peter spits on his hole and rubs his thumb over it, gently pushing at the muscle, just stretching it a little. "And then I'm going to give you a nice, long _fuck_. Would you like that?"

"Oh, Jesus."

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is what utter triumph sounds like. Peter lays flat on the bed and presses his face deep between Baxter's buttocks, pushing his tongue in as deep as it will go and _fucks_ Baxter's hole, slaps and curls his tongue, his own cock now hard and rutting against the silk. Fuck, Baxter tastes clean and sweet; and Peter isn't surprised by this at all. With that level of neuroticism, the man must spend ages in the shower. Peter wonders if he masturbates in there, working fingers in and out of his arse, dreaming of being fucked. The thought of it makes him moan into Baxter's arse, and as Baxter moans right back at the vibrations, pushing his arse _right back into his face_ , Peter almost fucking loses it. He has to grab his cock and squeeze it, _not yet, not yet, not yet._

He has to stop. By sheer force of will, Peter hauls himself off the bed and reaches for his vodka. Baxter looks up, seeming somewhat dejected, nodding at the bottle. "Should I be jealous?"

Peter shakes his head and waggles his hips, cock bobbing. "Nah. See? That's not for Lady Finlandia. Or the esteemed Mr. Smirnoff." He gargles, slides back into bed and puts his arms around Baxter, pulling him close. "Besides, I presumed you wouldn't want to kiss me otherwise."

"You talk a lot of bollocks, you realise that?" Baxter kisses him, rolls him onto his back and covers him, and Peter can't help but agree. He much prefers this to chatting, especially as it turns out Baxter is a fantastic kisser, A+++++, would snog again. The little bastard also continues to be a heartbreaker, what with his hands cupping Peter's face, the softness with which he kisses Peter, and Peter wonders if this is how he kisses a woman. He has no objections; it's a while since someone made him feel like a lady. Suddenly, Peter is not in a rush, and just enjoys this, the warm weight of Baxter's body, his cock rubbing against Baxter's belly, Baxter's soft little smile as he pulls back for air. A man could get used to this. Peter pulls Baxter back down, cups his face in turn and kisses him deeply, pulling him to himself, closing his eyes and shivering in pleasure at the slide of Baxter's tongue against his. God, it's magnificent.

Baxter takes his hand and it's suddenly wet, slick. Peter opens his eyes and Baxter laces his fingers with his, lube squelching and dripping from between them, oiling Peter's hand, massaging his fingers, coating them thoroughly. "Fucking hell." He wonders if he should tell Baxter that's quite possibly the most erotic fucking thing anyone's ever done to him, but then Baxter straddles him and brings Peter's hand to his cock, closes his own hand around Peter's and _squeezes_ , moaning as he starts to fuck Peter's fist.

Peter stares up at him in awe and realises he's gaping. This little fucker. He's utterly preposterous. "You're coming dangerously close to out-slutting me, young man." Peter tuts and shakes his head. "We can't have that."

Baxter undulates his hips, grits his teeth and squeezes harder. "What are you going to do? Spank me for it?"

Peter whacks him on the arse for that, hard. Of course, Baxter just throws back his head and laughs. "More, sir. I've been ever such a bad boy." And he really shouldn't say that, because he's giving Peter Ideas. "Watch it. Where did you put the lube?"

"It's, uh, somewhere. Oh, there you go."

Peter takes the lube and applies some more on his hands. "Now, then." He puts on a hint of his stage voice. A little more commanding, a little more evil. "We're going to play a little game, you and I." And that melodramatic drawl _works_ \--Baxter's eyes light up and his breath hitches, making his stomach twitch rather delightfully. Peter rubs his slick hands together and grins widely, handing Baxter the lube. "You're going to prepare yourself for me." He leans his head back on the pillows and wraps both hands around Baxter's cock. "Show me how you fuck yourself. C'mon."

Baxter has to balance himself on his hands as he scoots up to squat over Peter's chest, and Peter can swear his hands are trembling. His eyes are less mischievous now, just wide with lust, as if he's in a trance. He is less sure of himself now, obviously feeling exposed, and Peter fucking milks it, letting his eyes roam all over Baxter's body, his sinuous neck, his little nipples, his boyishly skinny thighs. As Baxter reaches around and starts to lube himself up, his eyes close and he turns his face away, looking so young, so bashful. And yet he's so eager, the curious eagerness only a virgin can have. _Oh yes,_ thinks Peter. _You'll do._ Softly, he repeats, "C'mon." He strokes Baxter's cock, gently, loosely, rubs his thumbs over the frenulum. "Show me."

It's not an easy position to stay in, so Baxter leans forward, one hand braced beside Peter, one hand working on his arse. He grunts in frustration, trying to balance, grinds back on his fingers and Peter can feel him shuddering as the fingers slip inside. Their faces are inches apart now, and Baxter opens his eyes, mouth slightly open, rocking to the rhythm of Peter's strokes, his crucifix dragging against Peter's chest. Peter kisses Baxter's jaw, cups his balls with his other hand, slicks him all over, welcoming him. Baxter rocks faster, a sobbing noise catching in his throat as he presses his forehead against Peter's. Peter wonders how much shame Baxter must be working through here, how much guilt he must've had over loving this, how long he must've been denying himself. He kisses Baxter softly. "'s ok. It's beautiful. _You're_ beautiful. I mean it."

But he isn't sure if Baxter believes it. He looks angry now, with tears brimming in his eyes even as he fucks himself on his fingers, even as he bucks into Peter's hands. He scoots back and grabs Peter's cock, a bit too hard for comfort. He doesn't even look at Peter, and gazes down at the bedcovers instead as he sniffs away at tears. "Fuck me." And it comes out wrong; as a desperate, pained, unsure plea. Houston, we have a problem. Fucking this man might not be the greatest of ideas right now. Peter strokes Baxter's sides. "Are you sure?"

Baxter just _looks_ at him, glares at him, and at that moment he seems so far away, the tears finally escaping his eyes. And Peter can't take it any longer. He pulls Baxter down, pins him down on the bed, holding him as tight as he can, desperately trying to hug the misery out of him. Baxter fists his hands in his hair and pulls him down for a furious kiss, bruising Peter's lips and he isn't sure whose blood he's tasting, his or Baxter's or both. Baxter wraps his legs around him, urging him on with his ankles, groaning into his mouth, pulling on Peter's hair. "I said, _fuck me._ "

 _Fine._ If a hard fuck is what he wants, a hard fuck is what he'll get. Even then, Peter is determined not to hurt him. He makes a point of applying more lube, slicking himself up as he positions himself between Baxter's legs. As soon as he starts pushing in, he sees Baxter's expression changing from anger into fear, Baxter's whole body stilling, cramping from the physical intensity of the penetration. Peter wants to say "I told you," but just lifts one of Baxter's legs over his shoulder and leans forward, working his way in with slow thrusts, in and out, deeper each time. And when he's deep enough not to slip out again, Baxter quivering around him, his body fighting being spread open, Peter covers him with his weight again and holds him. Just holds him. He's terrified, too, as he buries his face in Baxter's shoulder. He's not sure if he can stay hard like this, not when it feels like abuse, even if Baxter wants it. This isn't like the wild grudgefucks with Ginger, where they'd both egged each other on, and this is already more than just a fling.

"Hey." Baxter brushes Peter's back with his toes. Peter lifts his head, ready to pull out, to apologise, to call this whole thing off. And to his surprise, Baxter is smiling. It's Baxter who's embarrassed, glancing at the ceiling, then glancing back at Peter. "I'm sorry." His eyes are dry, now.

"Issues?"

"Yeah. Issues."

Peter glances down, then back up again. "Hell of a way to work through your issues, mate." He's not sure what to think, and pulls out, flopping back on the bed beside Baxter.

Baxter strokes his cheek. "I was just starting to enjoy that, you know."

"Didn't look like that to me."

"Swear." Baxter kisses him, as if to convince him. He is less tense now, warm and sinuous as he presses against Peter's body, wrapping his arms around him. "I'm sorry. I'm not normally like this. It was just... intense, okay? Shouldn't have rushed it. I'm better now."

Peter is not sure if he's relieved yet. Ok, so a good bumming usually puts him in good cheer, but that was hardly a bumming. "Are you telling me you just instantly felt better once I stuck it up you? Get out of here. I suddenly acquired a magic cock or something?" He glances down at himself. "Bloody hell. Did you hear that? I should give you a show of your own."

Baxter rolls his eyes and laughs. "Did anyone ever tell you you're an idiot?"

"All the time." Peter wiggles his hips. Time for a reboot. "D'you want another drink?"

Baxter shrugs. "Might as well."

This time, Peter chooses champagne, lays out some nibbles and lights a fire. They're going to have one hell of a hangover the next morning from mixing their drinks, but something cheery is needed right now. He sure as hell could use the fizz. It helps, and makes Baxter bubblier and cheerier, too, talking about his brief stint in theatre management. It's where he developed a genuine appreciation for showmanship, and of course, this strokes Peter's ego quite nicely. Until Baxter points out he's no Derren Brown, after which Peter is compelled to "accidentally" spill champagne on Baxter's head and inevitably, wrestling ensues. When Baxter pins him down on the floor, pants above him and grins like the devil, it makes him grin like a fucking moron right back at him, and all is good with the world.

It's warm by the fire, and they lie there, naked, kissing and stretching. After a bit of poking in the ribs, Baxter manages to convince Peter to get the lube. Peter has his revenge by pouring the cool lube right over Baxter as he returns, making Baxter yelp.

"Oi! What was that for?"

Peter slides on top of him, smearing the lube everywhere and kissing him.

"For being a sexy bastard."

Baxter shrugs. "For a sexy bastard, I'm feeling remarkably underappreciated. Feel free to rectify this at any point."

Peter slides a wet hand to Baxter's cock. "I'll do my best." Oh, he knows how to shut the greedy bastard up. He slides down, takes Baxter's oiled cock into his mouth and sucks him slowly, loving the way he fills out in his mouth. This time, Baxter is so relaxed he just surrenders, legs spreading wide, head thrown back, chest and stomach rising and falling in the flickering firelight. Oh, fuck yes. This alone makes all of tonight worthwhile. This is what he saw in Baxter at the club, he thinks as he slides a slick finger inside and fucks him slowly. A man so uptight he just had to be hiding something underneath all that, and just look at the whorish way he now writhes on the rug, panting, moaning, fucking himself on just one single finger, all hot wet tight heat and a dripping cock in Peter's mouth. Oh yes. So worth it.

Baxter's cock is delicious and Peter savours it; wonders what it would feel like to have it up himself, to give it a good ride. He wants to do everything with Baxter, everything--from what he's gauged so far, he dares to imagine everything from this tenderness to hard, raw fucking with welts and bitemarks, imagines being handcuffed as Baxter fucks him, Baxter drooling on a gag as Peter stretches him with a plug--but he's getting ahead of himself. Right here, right now, Peter has a mouth full of a perfect cock, and he gives it all he's got, all his best sucks, even dips into his throat for a few seconds when he can manage it. Baxter's thighs jerk and Peter knows he's close--"That's it, c'mon, give it to me," and he opens his mouth wide to take Baxter in, looks into his eyes as he fucks Baxter with two fingers and _milks_ him, milks him straight into his mouth and sucks and swallows every single pulse of Baxter's come.

He catches a glimpse of himself in a mirror, eyeliner running down his face, his mouth full of cock, his hair and cheeks spattered with come, and oh yes, he's a fucking _star_.

Baxter turns his head back to see what the hell Peter is looking at and mumbles "You're impossible," pulling Peter to himself and kissing him, sucking on Peter's tongue, licking the taste of his own come out of Peter's mouth, still shuddering underneath him in aftershocks. He grabs Peter's cock and laughs huskily into his mouth, his voice still shaking. "Now, would you be so kind as to finally _fuck me_?"

"You only had to ask." Peter lies down behind Baxter and slicks himself up, pressing his chest against the wonderful warmth of Baxter's back. It's easy this way, Baxter already relaxed, and Peter just clasps him close as Baxter works his hips down, slowly, little by little. At times, Baxter withdraws when it hurts too much, and that's when Peter kisses his neck, brushes his fingers across his chest and lies still. He waits as Baxter breathes, pauses until he can relax a little more and press down again, deeper and deeper each time. And when his buttocks touch Peter's hips, he shivers, shivers all over and pants, face pressed into the rug, making soft noises. Peter holds him through this, too, not daring to move yet, just strokes his sides and kisses his back, waiting until Baxter's breathing evens. He tucks his chin over Baxter's shoulder.

"You all right?"

"Yeah."

"How are the issues?"

Baxter laughs, giving a delighted little wriggle. "Blissfully quiet."

"That's good to hear."

Peter takes it slowly at first, clasping Baxter's hips and rolling his own softly, gently, letting Baxter savour the length, breadth and pressure of his cock inside him. It's what Peter loves himself most in the world when he's being fucked, and Baxter is no different. He frowns and then stills, quiet with the pleasure of being fucked, lying lax in Peter's arms, so relaxed it makes Peter ache with tenderness, so that Peter barely moves himself, not wanting to disturb what Baxter is feeling. Slowly, though, Baxter stirs from his slumber, presses back into the undulating movements and starts to match them, craning his head, spreading his legs to take Peter in as deep as possible, as if wanting to consume Peter, take him as he's being taken. He's in that trance state again, and this time, it holds and holds and Peter wants to give him everything he needs, everything. He reaches out to gently pinch at his nipple, and when Baxter cries out, Peter lets go.

"No. Nonono, keep going."

Baxter grins, pulls Peter's hand back to his nipple and when Peter pinches, this time even harder, Baxter jerks, shudders all over and moans louder than he's moaned all night, such a raw sound after all this silence. Holy fuck. Peter's instincts were right. That's a kinky streak if he ever saw one. "So that's your little secret, eh?" he murmurs and pinches again, and Baxter jerks and moans within his embrace, flushed from face to shoulders, his cock twitching against his thigh. Ex-fucking-quisite. "Well, Baxter, you know what I'm going to do to you?"

He turns Baxter on his back, spreads his legs so he can enter him this way, so he can see his face. He runs his nails down Baxter's chest and repeats his question. "Do you know what I'm going to do?"

Baxter groans, eyes slitted with lust as Peter begins a deep, hard fuck. "I'm sure you're going to tell me. Oh, God. There. Just there. Just... don't stop." He spreads his legs wider, reaching down to wank himself. "Fuck. Tell me."

Sweat stings Peter's eyes and he wipes them, then leans down to cup Baxter's face, leaving eyeliner trails over his temples. "I'm going to put clamps on you." He sways his hips, almost pulling out completely, then slamming back in. "Would you like that?"

Baxter's head rolls to the side and he's gasping. "Oh, fuck. Yes."

Peter chuckles. "Thought you might. What if I picked ones with a chain on them? So I can tug them as I please?" he pinches both of Baxter's nipples now, Baxter staring up at him, wide-eyed, panting, open-mouthed, tugging faster and faster on his cock. "Oh, God. Oh, fuck. Oh, God."

"Yeah? Tug on your little tits like this? While I fuck you?" And Peter _twists_ , twists until Baxter shouts, coming all over his fist and chest, shouting so loud everyone in the fucking hotel can hear; his mates, the grannies next door, everyone and it's fucking _glorious_.

Oh, it's beautiful. Peter waits until Baxter comes to, finishes shuddering. He rubs Baxter's nipples gently, soothing away the pain, kissing them, kissing Baxter's mouth, holding him close. "You little pervert."

Baxter smiles into his mouth. "Guilty as charged." He stretches luxuriously, then wriggles underneath Peter. "Keep going."

"You're not too sore?" Peter moves inside him slowly, luxuriating in how soft and warm and tight Baxter feels.

Baxter shakes his head and grins. "Go ahead."

"On one condition."

"Hmm?"

Peter nods towards the other side of the room. "That mirror, over there." He bites Baxter's ear. "Want you to watch yourself. Oh, and wear your glasses." And somehow, even if it seems impossible, Baxter blushes even more. Perfect.

The most difficult thing is to make it last, of course. Baxter's on all fours, looking at himself in the mirror, and fuck, Peter would film this if he could. Then he could show Baxter how beautiful his arse looks, accepting his cock like this, all red and open. Instead, he tells Baxter what he sees, pulls his cock all the way out and then makes a ring with his fingers to illustrate just how wide open Baxter is. And Baxter moans "Oh, God," hides his face from the mirror by looking down, down at his own, still-hard cock. And Peter squats above him, angling his hips just right until he's balls-fucking-deep, his arm gently around Baxter's neck, lifting Baxter's face to the mirror. "Watch." And Baxter watches, watches how his cock sways, drips on the carpet, watches how the veins on his neck stand out, watches as his arms tremble from holding the position. Peter tells him to keep looking, and then lets go of his neck, just grabs his shoulders and _fucks_ him, raw, fast, animalistic, groaning loudly at the top of his voice, letting everyone hear just how much he enjoys fucking another man up the arse. For once, Peter is not looking at himself, just observing Baxter, and it's Baxter's face that finally makes him come, that totally open, broken, exhausted and enthralled face looking back at him from the mirror. The last thing he sees are his black fingernails digging into Baxter's hips, and then he's biting into Baxter's shoulder, balls slapping against Baxter's arse as he comes so deep inside him, so hard Baxter sobs right along with him.

***

Later, much later, when they've regained enough muscle coordination to pile themselves on Peter's bed, Peter pets the rug burns on Baxter's knees. "Your friend's not going to like these."

Baxter tosses down a handful of peanuts. "Tough."

"What are you going to tell him?"

"To go fuck himself." Baxter stretches gloriously, hair in a mess, with the utter relaxation of the freshly debauched.

Peter makes an exaggerated pondering face. "I suppose that could help. He did seem a bit uptight."

"Are you always this much of a manwhore or is it just an act?"

Peter moves his hand up to Baxter's thigh, leering. "It's an incurable condition, I'm afraid."

Baxter slaps Peter's hand. "Girroff. 'm too sore, anyhow."

Peter groans and flops on his stomach, burying his face in the pillows. "Don't tell me your dragon wants you back home by midnight."

Baxter shakes his head, puts his glasses back on the table and yawns. "Nah. I'm about to collapse as it is." He pulls the covers over himself and gets comfortable. He snuggles close to Peter, smirks and squeezes his buttock. "Besides, don't think I'm going to leave you unfucked."

Peter gives a delighted wriggle. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Baxter yawns again and closes his eyes. "Tomorrow, though. G'night."

Peter thinks he might sprain something in his face from smiling so hard. He's tired enough to sleep now himself, but it's still going to be a challenge with that promise hanging in the air. Maybe if he...

Baxter cracks one eye open. He's clearly holding back laughter. "Don't wank when I'm trying to sleep."

"I wasn't--"

"I could hear you thinking. Now go to sleep."

"Yes, _sir_."

"Don't push it."

Peter chuckles and wraps an arm around Baxter, kissing him goodnight.


End file.
